


Drawn to You

by sbstevenson2



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 12:42:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14044503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sbstevenson2/pseuds/sbstevenson2
Summary: OQ Prompt Party 2018 - Prompt #62. I went to a museum to get some inspiration for my art and then I saw you staring at one of the paintings in awe but now you just noticed me drawing you and this is awkward AU





	Drawn to You

She sees him from where she sits on the cool, glossed wooden bench a few paintings away. He’s handsome, even from his side profile. She’s always been intrigued by profile shots, always wanting to try her hand at them. No time like the present, she supposes, flipping to the next page in her sketchbook and twisting her pencil between her fingers.

The first thing she notices is the scruff along his strong jaw, short and stubbly, not too long. She likes the scruff, finds it suits his face well. He’s staring intently at the artwork, observing it from every angle. He turns his head just right, trying to almost peer through the canvas as if he wants to jump inside of it. When he does, she notices his eyes. They’re a piercing blue color, one that makes her wish she’d brought her watercolors to use today. Alas, she’ll settle for her graphite sketch, making a mental note to add a hint of turquoise to his irises when she gets home. 

He straightens himself upright again, looking around the crowded gallery. He glances left, then right, catching her gaze for a second. He smiles, a soft, warm thing that makes her head tilt to the side in wonder. His smile is encased by two dimples like bookends holding a stack of tomes together. His smile makes her feel as if she already knows him somehow. She looks down after answering his smile with a shy one of her own, embarrassed to have been caught staring. 

Picking up her pencil, she adds his mouth to the portrait, slanting the corners up just a bit, making him give that friendly smile to anyone who will eventually see the drawing. She sweeps over, shadowing part of his cheeks, giving them some depth where his dimples live. Regina sits back, stretching her shoulders to relieve the tension in her lower back. She’s been sitting here for close to an hour, observing the happenings around her, drawing inspiration from the art and people around her. As she rolls her shoulders, she peers down at her work, smiling at the slight progress she’s already made. 

Portraits are always a challenge, wanting to get the facial dimensions just right. It’s hard now, not being able to fully look at this mystery man. She makes a note in the corner of the previous page to add a smattering of dusty blonde coloring to his hair later, adding specks of the gray she spies shimmering beside his temples. 

She looks up and over again, needing to see her subject again as reference for her drawing. When she does, she notices him making his way over to her. He hadn’t been that far away, so he’s already close, too close for her to hide her artwork completely. She lays her arm frantically over it, hoping it appears to be more of a casual cover up to an outsider looking in, as she tries to hide the majority of the drawing from his eyes. 

“Hello,” he says softly, smiling and bending down to sit beside her on the bench. He has an accent, British, and she can’t help the swoop her stomach makes at the realization. “I couldn’t help but notice you staring at me over there,” he says cheekily, pointing back toward the painting he’d just come from with a grin on his face. “See something you like?”

He’s smug. But not in an off putting way, his casual tone and warm smile letting her know that he’s not serious, and she finds she likes it. It makes her smile, out of embarrassment or something else, she isn’t sure. 

“I, uh,” she stammers, leaning more into her sketchpad and tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, “I’m sorry.” It’s all she can think to say. What else is there? She  _ had _ been staring, and he’d caught her red handed. 

He chuckles, the sound of it reverberating off the wall closest to them. She glances around, making sure they aren’t disturbing any of the gallery’s patrons before letting her eyes land on his face once more. He’s not looking at her, though. He’s peering down at her drawing, trying to peek through her fingers that cover most of his drawn face. “Is that… me?”

Fuck. 

He reaches out tentatively, brushing his fingers against hers, silently asking to see the work. She closes her eyes in mortification, slowly moving her arm out of the way. “It… is.”

She puffs out a breath as he turns her pad to face him. He inhales a small breath, almost a tiny gasp, and she finds all she wishes right now is to have magical powers like the people in all her son’s storybooks do so she can poof herself out of this very moment. 

“It’s stunning…” his brows furrow in wonderment, “in every way.”

She looks up at him, eyebrows crinkling in confusion. Shaking her head, she tells him she’s sorry for spying on him. She’s an artist and she likes to, “draw inspiration from the people around me.”

He looks fascinated, this stranger, and she finds his raised eyebrows and impressed curve of his lips make her feel better about being caught drawing him. Not as awkward as she’d felt when he first walked up. “An artist?” he questions, “Any work I would’ve seen before?”

It’s Regina’s turn to smirk, letting out an exhaled chuckle. She raises her hand, stretching out her finger to point two paintings over. “That one actually.”

He turns his head to follow her finger’s direction, whipping it back to stare at her dumbfoundedly. “You drew  _ Boy with a Book _ ?” It’s the painting he’d been staring at for the last half hour, and his surprise makes her smile, biting down on her bottom lip to suppress it. She’s been gradually finding galleries to expose her work to the world over the last five years, just finishing a large exposé last month in Storybrooke’s largest art gallery. It’d been the highlight of her career thus far. She had three pieces hanging in today’s gallery, her proudest being the one this British stranger has found so intriguing. It features Henry, her son, resting on his stomach in his room. He’s surrounded by books, his face immersed in the largest of stories - a large, brown, leather bound book. It contains all his favorite fairy tales, and although he’s nine going on nineteen these days, he still asks to be read a tale or two on the nights he’s most sleepy (other times its more age appropriate stories like Harry Potter or anything with adventure and mystery).

She glimpses over his shoulder toward her painting, noting three more people have gathered around it to observe it in awe. When she flicks her eyes back to his blue ones, she smiles again. “I did.”

He breathes out, sitting further back on the bench. His shoulders relax as he admits, “I love that piece. It’s my favorite in the entire gallery.”

Ducking her head, she smiles in flattery, thanking him. He tells her he loves her use of color and the way she shaded certain areas made it look  _ so life-like _ . Says he feels like he’s in that room with the boy reading books along with him. And, well, that’s the highest compliment an artist can receive, really. “Mission accomplished then,” she quips, scrunching her nose up. 

He smiles at her, tilting his head and running a finger lightly across his drawn dimples. Looking back up to her, he says, “I’m Robin Locksley, by the way,” and sticks out his hand in between the small space between their bodies. 

They’re sitting closely, so his arm is bent at the elbow. She has to awkwardly scrunch her shoulder up to shake his as well. “I’m Regina-”

“Mills,” he finishes for her with a grin. “I remember your name from over there,” he signals with his thumb, pointing it over his shoulder. Turning to face her again, he questions where she drew the inspiration for his favorite painting.

Smiling, she explains, “My son, actually.” She tells him about Henry and how he’s always loved to read. Says he has been the top reader in his class every year, and she’s always been so proud of him. “He reads every night before bed or has me read to him. One day I walked in and saw him just like that,” she points toward her painting, shrugging, “and I knew I had to capture that serene moment in a piece of art.”

“Mission accomplished,” he echoes her sentiments from just a few short moments ago, making her chuckle out another  _ thank you _ . Robin asks her how old her son is, saying he has a son of his own. “Roland is six and currently into any and all things PJ Masks.”

She laughs, saying Henry is nine and luckily skipped that phase, “Although he was quite obsessed with Dora the Explorer when he was that age.”

He smiles, recounting that he hasn’t missed that stage either; Roland loves that girl and her sidekicks just as much as all the masked characters. 

“Where’s Roland today?” she questions, silently hoping he doesn’t have a wife that’s keeping the boy for the afternoon. Robin is cute, and flirty, and friendly, and she’s enjoying sitting here with him. She hasn’t gone on a date in  _ months _ , not since Tink convinced her to give David a chance. They’d lasted all of five months before he admitted he was in love with his best friend, Mary, and, well, that was the end of that. She’d be riddled with guilt if she found out she’s been flirting with a married man. She’s ready to date again, and Robin might just be the best person for the job, if he’s available, that is.

“He’s with his uncle, actually. My wife passed three years ago, so I have to call on my best mate for afternoons like this.” He smiles, placing both arms behind him and leaning back on the palms of his hands. She knows the struggle of raising a child on her own; her Daniel passed away while Henry was still just a bump in her belly. “He didn’t quite fancy the thought of walking around a quiet art museum all day.”

Regina softly laughs, agreeing that it’s hard to convince a little boy to spend the day doing this. “Henry really only comes on opening nights, and only for a little bit. My best friend, Tink, usually takes him back home after an hour or two.”

Robin clicks his tongue against his teeth and  _ ahh _ ’s at that, chuckling before inquiring, “Your husband doesn’t watch him?”

She smirks at his inquisition, clearly just as curious about her relationship status as she’s been of his. “My husband passed nine years ago.”

He whispers an  _ I’m sorry _ out and looks over to her, piercing her chocolate brown eyes with his blue ones, a moment of understanding passing between them both. It’s happened before, meeting other widows or widowers, there’s a certain pain from losing a spouse that never quite goes away and is impossible to fully explain to someone who hasn’t gone through the same emotional trauma.

Robin breaks the empathetic silence, chuckling again and saying, “I couldn’t even get Roland to stay for an hour.”

She grins, telling him it sounds like their sons would get along just fine. He smiles, making a flippant remark about how they should get the boys together sometime before sitting up, rubbing his hands together and looking at the painting in between hers and the one directly in front of them. “What do you think of that one?”

Regina shakes her head, not even having time to process his implicative words, words that evade to him wanting to see her again after this… and with their sons, no less. “It’s nice,” she says, nodding and going on to talk about the structure of the lines and the contrast between the dark and light hues. He bounces his head in agreement, saying it’s calming to look at, “Not as nice as yours, but…” he trails off, another giddy simper blossoming onto her lips.

They sit there for a beat after that, comfortably taking in their surroundings. He’s peering directly ahead of them toward a painting of a fallen, moss covered log that sits amongst a plush, green forest. She shifts her eyes over to him, trying to sneak another glance at his face. Regina picks up her pencil, coloring in his eyebrows. 

{***********************}

Robin looks down when he feels her elbow moving against his ribs, chuckling when he sees her working on her drawing. The drawing of him. He’d spotted her when he first stopped in front of  _ Boy with a Book _ , thinking she was the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen. She had long, raven colored hair, and these deep, expressive brown eyes that were looking directly at him, studying him as it were. 

He hadn’t thought much of it, just thinking she was doing a bit of people watching like so many people do at these galleries. After a while, he took a chance and glanced at her again, noting she was staring still. He’s glad now that he smiled at her, gathering up the courage to walk over and introduce himself. He had been surprised, of course, when he got closer and noticed she was drawing a human face, one that looked oddly familiar. As he sat down, he realized it was  _ his _ face. Unsure of how to feel, he made a quip, effectively embarrassing her if the blush to her high cheekbones were anything to go by. 

He’s more relaxed now, though, especially knowing she’s an artist. The staring makes more sense. Her drawing is beautiful, dark and light grays swirling together to shade his face into a likeness so uncanny that he can’t help but tell her, “I could never do something like this.” It’s amazing, a talent he’d always wished he had but never did, so he’d taken up the hobby of looking at art instead of attempting to create it. 

“I bet you could,” she says sympathetically, letting her finger graze against his from where they sit on her sketch pad. He can’t help the shiver that runs through him at the sensation. 

Christ, get it together, he thinks. 

It’s been three years since his Marian died, leaving him with a toddler to raise all on his own. He’s flirted, sure, even gone out with a few girls, but nothing ever seemed to stick. There’s something about Regina though, be it her coy smile or the way she observes and takes in the life around her, but his interest is piqued. 

They sit for a while after she finishes sketching his eyebrows, her letting the pencil fall between their bodies as they talk. They discuss the art around them, the artists they both enjoy, and what other galleries her work has been featured in.

“I had a few pieces at the Storybrooke Gallery a few weeks ago,” she tells him, pulling her dark hair all to one side, giving him a nice view of her long, tempting neck. 

He pulls his eyes away from the movement to look at her again. He remembers that gallery, had been there opening night of the exhibit. “You were there?”

She confirms it, saying she stayed all of opening night and popped in for a few minutes all the other nights that it ran. “That’s funny,” he breathes out, turning to face her more and gently caressing the side of her hand with his, “I doubt I’d ever forget seeing you.”

She blushes, he thinks, and he tells himself to find more ways to flirt with her if only to draw out that rose color on her cheeks again. Regina bites her lip, causing his eyes to flick down and watch the movement. Her lips are beautiful, plump, and painted a deep burgundy color today, he assumes to match the red of her dress. He thinks, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he’d enjoy kissing those lips, smearing that lipstick around her mouth. 

He slowly raises his eyes from her enticing lips to her beautiful eyes. She’s gorgeous, stunning in every aspect, and he finds himself wanting to gaze into those eyes for the rest of eternity. He could get lost in them, and he knows, no matter how short of time they’ve known each other, that if she were to let him, he’d get washed away in their depths forever like a shell taken back into the surf by the ocean’s current. 

Glancing down at his watch, he realizes that they’ve been sitting here for almost an hour together. No telling how long she’d been sitting there before that. His back is aching, not having a back to this bench making his joints show their forty years of living. He can only assume, as long as she’s been sitting here, that her’s aches as well. 

He stretches, twisting his back side to side. “We’ve been sitting here a while,” Robin tells her, picking up her forgotten pencil as his hand skims the side of her thigh. “Could I interest you in going somewhere else? Coffee, perhaps?” He stands, stretching out his hand for her to accept, “Preferably an establishment with padded seats.”

She giggles at that, closing her sketchbook and tucking it under her arm as she places her hand gently in his. His mind blanks for a moment, taking note of how perfectly their hands fit together; it’s as if their hands were made to hold each other’s. Smiling brightly as he helps pull her into a standing position, twisting his fingers to interlock with her as she simply replies with, “I think that sounds like a great idea.”

 

{*****************}

_ Thoughts? _


End file.
